


Lipstick

by tepidspongebath



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark!Molly, F/M, Kidnapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-07
Updated: 2011-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-15 04:55:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tepidspongebath/pseuds/tepidspongebath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly's brother gets her the perfect birthday present. Gift-wrapped. Tied to a chair. All hers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lipstick

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt on the kink meme, while I was in between chapters of a longer fic: _OK, I'm new to this, but here's a prompt for anyone who's interested- Please can someone write a fic about Molly being evil, and being in league with Jim from the start? Slash or siblings is optional, but I definitely want Sherlock to find out after being kidnapped by the two, and have this dialogue included: "You were right, you know", Molly smiled, dark red lipstick shining in the lamplight as she met Sherlock's glare, "My mouth did look too small without it"._

Sherlock wakes up in a dark room, tied to a chair, his hands bound tightly behind his back. The angle is almost painful - uncomfortable, surely - but what galls him, what makes his lips curl in a snarl of distaste, is that it's all so cliche. He, Sherlock Holmes, has been kidnapped, and while the fact in itself is worthy of note, he would have thought that whoever had managed to abduct him would have a little more imagination. Or would at least  _try_  to make things more interesting.

It's almost offensive.

He tries his bonds ( _rope, rough, actual fibers instead of synthetic material_ ) to see if - seeing as he is sitting in a cliche, he doesn't see why this part of it should be any different - he can work them loose.

A light flicks on overhead, and he has to pause and blink to get his bearings in the sudden, fluorescent brightness.

For the longest time, nothing happens.

"Well?" he asks the empty room sharply, annoyance bristling off his voice. "Aren't you supposed to come out now?"

No. Not empty. He realizes it as soon as the words come out of his mouth. Sherlock swears at himself, slowly, deliberately, inside his head, using the worst words he knows. He blames being drugged. He never would have overlooked the slight sounds of movement, the soft breathing if he had been in full possession of all his faculties. He refuses to turn his head to try and see behind him.

"Bad day, was it?" The words are whispered in his right ear, soft and intimate. "You sound so mad."

He recognizes the voice. Of course he does. And his eyes widen in shock and his lips part a little in surprise, because  _he was not expecting this_.

" _Molly?_ " Part of him still tries to seize on an explanation that fits his universe, that Molly was forced into this, that when he turns around, he'll see her wrapped in Semtex, reading out what someone is forcing her to say, but he knows, he  _knows_  that this isn't true.

"Who did you expect?" she asks, before planting a light kiss just below his ear. She chuckles, deep in her throat, and the sound is dark and rich, and unlike anything Sherlock ever expected from quiet little lab-assistant Molly. "Jim from IT?"

"Moriarty." Sherlock practically spits the name. It still rankles, of course it does, that the man got away, that he  _still_  hasn't managed to draw his net tight enough to catch him and hold him.

The laugh again. "He looks good in Westwood, doesn't he? I helped him pick out the suit." There is a hand on his shoulder, a small, female hand, and it trails lightly up his neck, the fingers tracing circles as it goes. "I did tell him he was being overly dramatic, you know. Wasting thirty million quid to get you to play his little games, all the explosions, all the nasty little  _people_  he had to involve. I told him the snipers were excessive. I had to clean up after him, didn't I?" Her mouth closes viciously on the helix of his ear. Sherlock grits his teeth and wonders if she's drawn blood. " _I always do_."

She walks, three steps, turns on the fourth to face him. She doesn't look any different from how she does when he sees her at Bart's, hair pulled into a ponytail, unremarkable clothes, but very feminine, very quiet, mousy, a push-over, really. That's how she  _looks_. But there is something fierce in her eyes, something he's only caught a glimpse of before when, apparently, she let herself slip when he said her 'boyfriend' was gay. There is lipstick, and a little make-up around the eyes. There is no Semtex at all.

"Are you very surprised, Sherlock?"

He tilts his head in acquiescence. He has to admit that he is. It stings his pride, but he knows when he is wrong. He (and he swears at himself again, using fouler words in several different languages) never even suspected.

"All this time, Molly? You were very good at playing your part."

"Not all of it was play, love." She leans forward, one hand resting on Sherlock's knee, one hand tracing the outline of his jaw. "I didn't have to  _pretend_  that you fascinate me,  _endlessly_. And I've never really cared for make-up, lipstick especially. So  _messy_. But you were right, you know", Molly smiled, dark red lipstick shining in the lamplight as she met Sherlock's glare, "My mouth did look too small without it."

And she leans forward the rest of the way, and her lips meet Sherlock's (he tries to move away, but she fists one hand in his curls, tight and painful, to keep him from moving), leaving slight smudges of red when she's done.

Something clicks inside Sherlock's head, something that matters, and he hates himself for having taken this long to realize it. " _What have you done with John?_ " He makes a token attempt to get loose.

Molly's nostrils flare. "Your precious doctor friend? He'll wake up with a lump on his head in your flat, and he'll call the police and say dear Jim kidnapped you. He did, you know. Jim, I mean." She giggles, and just then she sounds like the Molly Sherlock knows. "It's my birthday. Jim has always gotten me  _exactly_  what I want for my birthday. Ever since we were kids." And she sits on Sherlock's lap, straddling his legs. He bucks the chair in protest, to dislodge her. Molly laughs, keeps her seat by tightening her thighs around his, runs a hand through Sherlock's hair, possessive,  _delighted_ , like a child with a new toy. "Though I must say he's outdone himself this time. And gift-wrapped too."

Molly kisses Sherlock again, viciously this time, all tongue and force and teeth. She laughs at the angry, shocked look on his face, touches his lipstick-stained lips. Her lipstick, right where she put it, right where she wanted it. "Don't worry, Sherlock. I'm  _not_  like Jim. I don't break my toys. And they'll find you. Oh yes, I'll give you back to precious Doctor John." She slides against him, moves her hips, and Sherlock does not want to believe this is happening. "But we'll have a bit of fun first, won't we, dear?"


End file.
